


A Pound of Flesh

by LogicalBookThief



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Attempted Burglary (on Stan's part), Bad Parenting, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Creepy Lovecraftian Vibes, Cultish Atmosphere, Demonic Possession, Gen, Kidnapping, Possession, Post-Episode: s02e20 Weirdmageddon 3: Take Back the Falls, Post-Weirdmageddon, Sea Grunk Adventures, Sea Hobo Shenanigans, So Slight Gore (Only Zombie Gore Though), The Root of Most Evils tbh, Though It's Not Explicit, Torture, Violence, Zombies, abelist language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-03 20:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6625462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicalBookThief/pseuds/LogicalBookThief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A much-needed stop for supplies has Stan and Ford docking in a coastal village that's hiding some dark secrets. But in uncovering the sinister truth about its residents, the brothers might discover a danger lurking even closer to home...</p><p>For a prompt that said: "Would you ever write something with Bill trying to take over, but Ford helps Stan subdue him? I’ve seen a lot where Bill succeeds or where Stan defeats, but especially with the way you write protective Ford, I bet he’d be right there helping Stan" that got very out of hand...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Good Deed

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt that said: "Would you ever write something with Bill trying to take over, but Ford helps Stan subdue him? I’ve seen a lot where Bill succeeds or where Stan defeats, but especially with the way you write protective Ford, I bet he’d be right there helping Stan" that got very out of hand...enjoy!

In their line of work, danger was pretty much an occupational hazard. Difficult to avoid what with the giant squids, the sirens, and the occasional iceberg.

But even with all the strange and sometimes hostile anomalies they had encountered thus far, there was still nothing more dangerous than a human who didn’t have a clue as to what dangerous stuff they were dealing with.

*

*

*

*

In his defense, Stan _told_ Ford that this quiet little coastal village didn’t feel right the minute they docked.

And in Ford's legitimate defense, they were in great need of supplies (kraken meat only kept so long; not bad by the way, a little salty), and the trek to the larger town that lay further inland would have take an hour with a car they didn’t even have. Not to mention the locals didn’t appear all-too keen to lend two strange old men a vehicle for the day.

The first sign of trouble came shortly after they came ashore. To be fair, Stan knew plenty about small-town life after thirty years in Gravity Falls, knew the curious and indiscreet glances that newcomers drew from the locals. The people of this place, however, seemed downright skittish and suspicious of them.

Even from weeks at sea, with nothing but raw seafood for company, the stench couldn’t have been _that_ bad.

Growing annoyed, and unnerved, by the lukewarm introduction, Ford took matters into his own hands. “Pardon me,” he began politely, approaching a man who was watching them with particular scrutiny, “Could you point us in the direction of the local grocery?”

“What for?”

“For a parakeet,” Stan deadpanned. "For _food,_ obviously.“

"You are outsiders,” said the man, obliquely. “I am afraid that selling to you would be forbidden without first gaining permission from the Reverend.”

Ford narrowed his eyes. “You need permission to sell us _food?”_

“What kind of business you runnin’, pal?” Stan huffed. “Gonna need to see our IDs next?”

That would be interesting, considering that Stan was legally dead, Ford’s name had a record a mile long, and the fake IDs Mabel had procured them only tended to work on people with less-than-stellar eyesight.

“I’m sorry I cannot be of more service,” replied the man, regretfully. "But, if you like, I can consult the Reverend on your behalf.“

The brothers shared a glance, silently conveying their assent: it was better than nothing, after all.  

"Thank you, Mr…?”

“Simon.”

“Simon.” Ford nodded. “Lead the way, then.”

Even with a local at their side, the gawking became, if anything, less surreptitious. Whispers prickled at the back of Stan’s neck as they walked, yet nobody dared approach them directly, despite their plain and vested interest.

“Pretty subdued around here,” Stan remarked offhandedly.

“Our town suffered a terrible plague not long ago. We are still recovering from the terror it brought,“ Simon relayed, his voice weighed low by a lingering grief.

“Sorry to hear it,” Ford offered his condolences.

“If not for the Reverend’s guidance, we might not have recovered at all,” Simon continued, as if he’d barely heard.

“Uh huh…” Stan said slowly. "This reverend guy, he double as town mayor or something?”

“The Reverend guides what’s left of our community, spiritually and otherwise. He will lead us to the light.”

And _that_ was when Stan could no longer hold his tongue.

“They’re taking us to their leader,“he murmurred to Ford, who nearly choked trying to muffle his snicker. "Are you _kidding me,_ Sixer? None of this strike you as being a little, uh, _weird?”_

“Weird is subjective, Stan. I came across many cultures in other dimensions that, by our standards, were quite abnormal. Best not to question it. We’ll be on our way soon, anyway, so just behave and be civil.”

 _Him?_ Act with anything except the utmost civility? Stan huffed at the mere implication. Annoyed, he shut his yap for the rest of the walk that took them to a church.

Needless to say, his self-imposed silence did not last long. Not after the sight that greeted them once they arrived.

A decent crowd of people were gathered inside the church, and they were bowing intermittently, not at any statue or idol. Arranged in a circle, men, women and children alike murmured a drone of prayer, some with a fervor that prickled the hairs on his arms

The Reverend, who he could only assume was the guy standing in the center and preening under the power-trip afforded him, wasn’t donned in any ridiculous robes or playing backwards records like Stan had half-expected. If anything, he seemed pretty average-looking, someone might see at a supermarket or a bank.

Except for the weird, glowing amulet around his neck, multiplying the off-putting quality of the scene by at least ten.

At this point, Stan felt that ” _I told you so"_ didn’t adequately cover it.

Whatever… _this_ was, it didn’t remotely resemble any of the services they had attended growing up. Reminded Stan more of the cults he’d come across in the ‘60s and '70s, during his drifter days. Heck, this made the robes of that Society of the Blind Eye look sane.

“Reverend,” Simon greeted with a respectful bow. He waded through the gathering of worshippers, and with an expression that was artfully neutral, Ford followed.

Stan passed, staying off to the side. He would hardly be much assistance in winning over; so he leaned against the wall, used the minute to relax, attend to itches in need of scratching, and idly scan the room.

Like him, one girl sat by her lonesome, away from the rest of the congregation. She wasn’t doing anything special, quietly sketching on a notepad in the corner. What drew Stan to her was that fact that her eyes were covered in a way that, along with the cane propped next to her stool, suggested that she was blind.

He wandered over, curious and bored. Stan’s eyebrows rose in appreciation as he took a gander at her work, which certainly wasn’t impaired in the slightest – it was almost breathtaking the way her pencil glided across the paper, appearing as though it was being moved a force of its own. 

Something about the sketch made his breath catch, too. On the left, a figure kneeled with its arms thrown towards the flaming sky, while the figure on the right bowed its head to the ground. In the middle, perched within the flames like a sun god atop his throne, was a triangular.

The drawing looked so damn _familiar,_ yet he couldn’t place why. Trying to discern the reason nearly split his head in two, drawing a hiss of pain from between his teeth.

 _A blazing bullet shoots him in the face, engulfing him_ – _MY TIME HAS COME TO BURN_ – _"Stanley,“ someone calls, his mother he thinks but then the memory dissolves to dust, ashes within his grasp_ – _there’s pain, fleeting, like a blinding flash of light before the oblivion consumes everything_ – _STANLEY, someone screams, both a curse and a plea_ – _I INVOKE THE ANCIENT POWER THAT I MAY RETUR_ –

_"Stanley.”_

Stan snapped his eyes open – wait, had he shut them? – and looked over at Ford, who had called to him. His headache, thankfully, was already starting to abate.

When he glanced up, searching for his brother’s eyes, he caught the steely gray voids of the Reverend instead. He couldn’t place why the glint in the man’s gaze made him uneasy as it drilled into Stan at full-throttle, but he’d be damned if he would look away, much as he yearned to.

Ford noticed his fixation, too, and coughed pointedly. That caught the man’s attention, and he blinked away the intensity, though his eyes never removed themselves from Stan.

“After speaking with your brother, I’ve discerned you as amicable outsiders. You may purchase your supplies,” the Reverend granted, “on one condition.”

Ford visibly bristled, apparently having used about as much diplomacy as he could handle today. "Which is?“

"You remain in the village for tonight.” Both of them relaxed at the benign request. “There’s a storm headin’ towards the coast; I would hate to see your vessel caught in its midst.”

“Somehow the raging sea feels safer than this sideshow,” Stan mumbled, the remark earning him an elbow from his brother.

“Thank you very much. We accept those terms,” said Ford, bidding a hasty adieu, "If you don’t mind, we ought to get to it.“

With that, he took Stan by the arm and dragged him outside. Once they were a decent distance from the building, Ford stopped, maneuvering him so that they were face-to-face.

"Stanley, there’s something very wrong going on here.”

“I’ll say. What happened to, ” _Oh, weird is subjective, Stan, nothing to worry about.“_ ”

“This is serious,” Ford hissed. “That necklace the Reverend was wearing gives me a very bad feeling.”

“Don’t blame ya,” Stan snorted. “Thing’s giving off voodoo vibes out of the wazoo.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Ford conceded. “I mean, you can practically _smell_ the ancient evil emanating from it.”

“That’s one of the lamest sentences I’ve ever heard,” said Stan honestly. "But I don’t doubt it for a second.“

His brother paced in a narrow line, hands clasped behind his back, eyes focused like they were whenever he tried working out a particular difficult or perplexing anomaly. Stan recognized that look like he recognized his own reflection.

"What’re you thinkin’, Sixer?”

Ford paused, straightening with purpose. “I don’t trust that type of artifact in the hands of that man. Most likely it’s the reason he has such sway over the people of this village. And my gut tells me we should take care of this matter as soon as possible.”

“Good, 'cause I was thinkin’ the same.” Stan grinned. “Now all we need is a plan.”

And he had one – or well, at least a rough outline of one. Unfortunately, Ford wasn’t too keen on what he had in mind.

 _“Split up?_ Have you swallowed too much sea water again?”

“You said yourself, you need to figure out what’s up with that old-as-dirt doohickey of his,” said Stan pragmatically.

“But the longer it stays in his possession, the worse it will be…”

“Right,” said Stan, nodding. “So you use your nerdy research skills to find out what special ritual volcano we have to use to get rid of the thing, and in the meantime, I use my breaking-and-entering skills to steal it off his person.”

“Divide and conquer,” Ford acknowledged with the barest smile. It faded quickly, sobered by the situation. “Only it  _irks_ me how little we know about the amulet’s unknown potential. And you’re going to try and _steal_ it.”

“Well, yeah. S'what I do.” Stan smirked unabashedly. “'Sides, if we don’t find out how to sink this ship before the townsfolk get wise, we’re gonna be _very_ outnumbered, and in deep shit anyway. 'Least this way we have a chance of getting the drop on him.”

“Good point,” Ford muttered reluctantly. He clearly didn’t want to give his blessing, yet the argument was stacked against him. At last, he sighed in defeat, _“Fine_. Just be careful.”

“Again, _me?_ Careful is my middle name.”

“I don’t believe _Careful_ was our mother’s name.” Ford’s mouth curled teasingly.

“Shuddup and go _study,_ nerd.”

*

*

*

*

It was near sunset when they went their separate ways, which worked in Stan’s favor, allowing him to work under the obscurity of darkness.

Quaint village like this, it should be a snap. Probably didn’t even lock their doors and windows at night.

No sooner had he slipped through the window, practically soundless, did a tinny voice called out, “Hello?” nearly knocking Stan off his feet.

The blind girl he’d met earlier stood in the hall, the same sketchbook from before tucked under her arm.

“Eh, um. _Hi,”_ Stan greeted, thinking quick. "D-Don’t mind me, just a plumber, here to fix the leaky faucet–"

“You’re the man who was at the church today,” she recalled, cutting through his bullshit like knife through butter.

Stan stewed at her enhanced hearing and attentive memory. “Yeah, well,” he coughed, deflecting with a gruff, “What are _you_ doing at the Reverend’s place, anyway? Ain’t it past your bedtime?”

“I’m his daughter.”

“Daughter?” Stan choked. _Geez, didn’t win the genetic lottery there. Poor kid_. “Uh, your dad doesn’t happen to home, by any chance? Maybe on the john?”

She shook her head. Stan rolled his eyes. _No, of course not. Why ever make things easy for me?_

“He went out to the church to prepare for tomorrow’s sermon,” she told him, helpfully.

“Didn’t happen to leave that freaky necklace of his behind, did he?” he inquired, already predicting the answer.

Heading to that creepy church again, at night, was not ideal. Nevertheless, what choice did he have?

He considered letting Ford know over the walkie-talkie, but _eh,_ the change in location didn’t make a difference. He would only be interrupting Poindexter’s important research, when there was no need; Stan could handle this.

“Off to church, I guess.” He turned, waving over his shoulder. “Thanks for the tip, kiddo.”

“Can I come with you?” she called after him, forcing Stan to halt in his tracks. Her “I don’t…wish to be here when my father returns.”

Stan chewed his lip, a headache growing between his temples. Her plaintive tone was hard to refuse, even as his gut advised against it.

On one hand, he ought to just say _no,_ as her presence could at best distract him and at worst hinder his part of the mission. Plus, the girl had an eerie, solemn vibe for someone who should have been just the regular a mess of pimples and hormones; maybe it was hereditary, or from exposure to her doomsday televangelist of a father.

Either way, not really her fault. She was only a kid, after all, at most a few years older than Dipper and Mabel, perhaps around Wendy’s age. That, more than anything else, tweaked his embarrassingly flimsy heart-strings and made him take her with him. “What do they call you?” he sighed.

“Cassandra.”

“Okay, Cassandra. Let’s move,” Stan declared, offering his elbow. She appeared steady without a walking stick, yet he figured things would move faster this way.

“Knew a Cass once, way back when. Cass Clayton; she was a knockout in _and_ out of the ring, let me tell you. Never forget the way she gave Muttonchop Mike a poundin’. Picture it: 1973. Just found work at this underground boxing ring, ya know, to pay the bills yada yada…”

He babbled for most of the trek, mostly in an effort to put her at ease, but also because he couldn’t shake a feeling of forebode as they neared their destination. His gut screamed for him to _stop, drop and roll_ the hell outta there. His feet kept moving, right alongside his mouth, until the moment the church came into view, and Cassandra's skinny fingers clenched around his sleeve.

Stan opened his mouth, going to placate her and suggest she remain outside while he burgled the place, when the walkie-talkie at his hip crackled with alarm.

_“Stan!”_

“Ford?” He yanked the radio, which rasped worryingly, up to his face. “You there?”

 _“–nley,”_ came his brother’s frantic voice, fading in and out. _“We ha…blem…mlet…ple…bie…an yo…r m…an–!”_

“Ford! Hey, Sixer!” he shouted into the walkie-talkie. Static answered. _“Shit.”_

Stan groaned, the noise petering into a gusty sigh. He turned to his charge, rubbing the back of his neck apologetically. “Look, kiddo, sorry to be a big ole jerk and leave you hanging but I gotta go see about my brother.”

Cassandra inclined her head, accepting this news with grace.

“You are a kind man, Stanley Pines. Kinder than you believe,” she said, and while the words were pretty like a compliment, they were spoken like a mournful portent. “It will be your undoing, as it was before.”

He frowned, about to ask what in the hell she meant by that, when something struck the back of his head. The world swam out of focus, the ground caved, and in the avalanche that followed, Stan founded himself swept into the gorge below.


	2. Smoke You Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starring Dr. Stanford “You’re Plot Is No Match for my Gun, Idiot!” Pines ft. Stan Being the Most Uncooperative and Sarcastic Captive Ever.

The world swirled back into focus with alarming, unwanted speed. One minute he was languishing in a weightless slumber, and the next, his skull was pounding, pulsating. At least wherever he was, the light was dim, so as not to exacerbate the parietal ache he couldn’t reach.

Stan clung to consciousness with tenuous grip, impeded by a wave of nausea pressing against the walls of his esophagus. Sensations not unlike those he’d experienced on that fateful Ferris wheel ride at age seven, confirming his debilitating fear of heights.

Instincts kicked in, chief among them,  _flight_. He tried moving his arms, if just to  clutch the lump likely forming at the point of throbbing impact, only to find his wrists clamped down by unbridled metal. With a groan that began and capsized in the pit of his stomach, Stan realized he was chained.

_Excellent._

Above the din of his disorientation, Stan heard voices conspiring nearby. The Reverend’s dulcet tone he recognized, along with the subdued voice of Cassandra. Keeping his eyes shut, Stan evened out his breath as best he could, so that he still appeared asleep. This wasn’t his first rodeo, and the less his captors knew, the better. Hopefully, he could pick up some intel before they noticed.

 "…you have served your father well, as any worthy daughter should,“ the Reverend was speaking in a way that had Stan’s hackles battling his rational judgment. "For that alone, you deserve praise. But in addition, without your God-given abilities, I would have never procured my family’s long-lost heirloom, and this town would have fallen to sin and pestilence.”

Feigning a stupor proved slightly difficult when Stan itched to give this guy a taste of his left hook. He had been pretty salty towards the girl for luring him into this trap, too, but now decided that his first impression had been accurate. She was just a kid with a bastard for a parent. A kid who was as trapped by this fanatic as Stan.

Frankly, Stan didn’t have anything against religion; although, personally, he’d lost his faith a _long_ time ago. All the same, he owed his life to a rabbi that had once saved him from freezing to death on the streets, years and years ago. Then there was that monastery of _[Nattmara](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fen.wikipedia.org%2Fwiki%2FScandinavian_folklore%23Nattmara_.7C_Nightmare&t=NzcwZjYzMWNhNzA5NzE3NzI3NzUyNTY5NmRmOWIyM2I2NmJhMzg1ZCxGV2xjQ25USA%3D%3D)_ nuns that had helped him and Ford out in Iceland, great gals, all of ‘em.

It was creeps like this, the ones who deliberately or obliviously left collateral damage in their wake, that made his skin crawl.

He could even understand a scam, those scientology “churches” that milked money for profit; that, at least, you could chalk up to greed. Or hunger. Or someone trying to make quick cash and gettin’ in over their head, whatever. But you stay in the game as long as Stan had, you see the type that don’t things for the money, the survival. They do it because they whole-heatedly buy into what they preach.

People believe what they want to believe. The mistake was falling for your own con.

“When you were born, I had wondered why the Lord cursed me, his faithful attendant, with a disabled child,” mused the Reverend. “Now I see there was a use for you, after all.”

Through slit eyes, Stan watched Cassandra wince, his chest constricting at the onslaught of dejection, flashes of nostalgic memory ( _“Guess I was good for something, after all”_ ) and okay,  _that_ was the last straw.

“Hey!" he crowed, revealing the eavesdropper in their midst. Yelling felt like moving his tongue through cotton, but his indignation spurred him on, "Don’t mean to interrupt this _touching_ heart-to-heart, but why don’t you cut the kid some slack?”

Visibly surprised, Cassandra turned towards his voice, expression pinched by regret. For his part, the Reverend appeared unperturbed. “So you’ve joined us at last,” he remarked leisurely. “Marvelous. Now we can begin.”

_Begin? Begin **what?** I didn’t sign up for none of this. Permission was not granted. Do not proceed._

“Leave,” the Reverend dismissed his daughter, hardly sparing her a glance. “You have fulfilled your purpose.”

Cassandra wilted at the command,  _almost_ looking as if she might protest. In lieu of that, however, she strode towards the exit, stopping beside Stan’s prone form, feet stuck like the words caught in her throat. From the floor, he watched her mouth purse around some unnamed contrition.

“Go on, get,” Stan grunted, mustering a smile before remembering she couldn’t see. “And don’t take a word of what _he_ says seriously, 'kay? None of this is your fault.”

He meant to assuage her guilt, to no avail; the confession she yearned to share lay heavily on her chin, ducked towards the ground. Nonetheless, her nerve could not withstand the noise of impatience the Reverend utter, and with a shuffle of hasty footfalls she was gone.

With her departure, Stan and her father were alone.

“Prior to your awakening, the room was prepared for the ritual. So there will be no stalling,” assured the Reverend, examining the rows of flickering candles set up with scrutiny of a fussy decorator.

“Yeah, that’s real swell, pal.” Stan huffed. “Now, if you’re so concerned with being a gracious host, ya mind loosening these for me?”

He gestured to his manacled wrists, lifting them with as much leniency as the chains allowed (which wasn’t much).

The Reverend sniffed, coldly disregarding this request. Stan made an affronted noise in back of his throat, “So much for hospitality.“

"Hospitality will only appease the demon that inhabits your flesh,” murmured the Reverend, ghosting his hand down the skin of a candle and letting the warm, gooey wax run down his index finger.

“The _what?”_ Stan quirked a brow. Alright, apparently this guy was more than a few menorahs short of Hanukkah. “Listen, let’s get something straight: there’s nobody but _me_ currently taking up residence here. Trust me, if there was an extra tenant, I’d be getting more rent than a Sunday’s collection basket.”

“The amulet does not lie,” the Reverend recited, firmly.

“Right, right… You know, _about_ that fancy necklace of yours?” Stan hedged. "Gotta tell ya, it’s way eviler than it looks; and it looks pretty damn sinister already. Thing _glows,_ for Saul’s sake!“

 _"Silence!_ Enough of your ceaseless chatter,” snapped the Reverend, at wit’s end. The amulet gleamed in tandem to his shout before he whirled around, snatching up a candle.  “Even if the demon lies dormant, its evil will continue fester. So I shall endeavor to draw it out of hiding and banish it from your body, if I am able.”

“Very reassuring,” Stan muttered sarcastically, testing his binds for the umpteenth time. A curse left his lips when struggling proved futile. “How exactly do you plan to–”

His voice tapered off, eyes wary as the other strolled to his side and bent down, so near that the flare of the small flame blinded through his glasses; then the Reverend tipped the candle over and _hot,_ stinging wax spilled into the patch of thin, vulnerable skin peeking out of his collarbone.

Unprepared, Stan yelped as the drops of molten liquid seared into flesh, coagulated and cooled atop the reddened skin, clamping down on his bottom lip before a more embarrassing noise could escape. Copper burned his taste buds.

 _"Agh!_ _”_  he hissed, choking on the smell of burnt hair. _“Sonuvabitch…”_

The Reverend straightened, a – not smug, _per se,_ yet definitely pleased – twist to his lips. “Discomfort and distress are the singular hope of smoking out the parasite,” he declared, returning the candle to its stand. “It is my duty, as a servant of God and defender of this village, to dispose of this threat in an efficient and timely manner.”

Stan breathed hard through his nose, suppressing a twinge in favor of glaring at his captor. “When I get outta here–”

“By the time you leave, you shall either be cleansed of the evil spirit or damned to Hell with it,” the Reverend vowed.

He failed to suppress a shiver, though the words could hardly be considered a threat. They were merely _words,_ an earnest oath, as if spoken between friends.

It was a rule to live by, whether you were a conman or a sleazy salesman – you had to make the customer _believe_ in what you were selling. Usually, it wasn’t difficult, if you could pretend you had precisely what the person needed, right within reach. It didn’t even have to be a foolproof con most of the time.

 _People believe what they want to believe_.

There was no doubt that the Reverend believed every word of what he was saying. His voice rang with such casual, cold-blooded promise that Stan couldn’t help but believe him, too. And while he wasn’t a religious man, not by any means, he prayed to whatever force in the universe which might be listening that Ford was safe and on his way.

* * *

His quarry proved far less lively than his brother’s, but no less difficult. The library stood silent, devoid of noise, and devoid of all answers Ford presently required.  

It was after hours, yet even in the daylight, he doubted anybody would have heard the frustrated sigh that scattered particles through the stuffy air. He crept about, cautious despite the abandoned state of the building, and judging by the layer of dust along the shelves and spines, the library had been as such for quite a while.

Depriving the population of its source of knowledge made them ignorant, complacent, so it was no shock this place had become secluded and inaccessible. Unfortunately, Ford had come here for the sole purpose of the computers that would be at his disposal, all of which were offline and unusable.

Raking a hand through his hair, Ford drummed the other along the librarian’s desk. Maybe they had been fond of music and kept a radio in their desk. Constructing a router out of that with whatever else he had on hand should be a cinch. As he rifled, shoved the bottom of a drawer sat a file he nearly passed – what caught his attention was the Reverend's name scribbled on the label.

Creases along the corners of paper showed signs of use; clearly, someone else had gone searching for illumination as well. He wondered, distantly, whether they had succeeded and survived before quietly paying gratitude to the meticulous librarian that had collected the account.

Offering a combination of history and legend, it told of the Reverend’s ancestor, who had been one of those so-called explorers who stumbled upon the Western hemisphere and swiftly conquered everything within reach.

Mostly, the scrawled handwriting concerned itself with the tale of Yolotli, an Aztez woman revered as a talented artisan before the invasion of Cortez. So it goes, the women was “commissioned"–  _ordered_  – to craft her "employer" – _conqueror_  – an amulet befitting his "majestic" – _imposing_  – statue.

Even cornered by circumstances out of her control, Yolotli found she was by no means helpless, and she lacked anything to lose, including any sense of remorse she had once possessed.

Legend said she crafted the amulet from the bones of her perished children, the blood of her skewered husband, and the magic of her ancestors; she finused every ounce of grief and loathing into her art, and then presented it to him as a fine gift, wound it around his neck like a noose.

She did not live long afterwards, Ford learned. Just long enough to watch her vengeance take hold. The details of the amulet’s wrath proved gruesome, and the account ending by saying the ancestor’s remaining relatives buried the jewel, so as to escape Yolotli’s curse.

 _Precisely what I desired to avoid,_ Ford swore bitterly. They were up against an item containing ancient, corrupt magic; the kind which should never, _ever_ be toyed with. So of course it was in the hands of a morally reprehensible individual with an agenda. Fate was never so kind as to put it in the hands of, say, a Good Samitarian who would at worst deposit it at the local thrift shop.

 _Creak_. The library had a single entrance, and, upon hearing it opened with no forthcoming greeting, Ford’s hand instantly gravitated towards the piece hanging on his belt. Without a word, he waited for the undisguised footsteps to reach him, waited to decide whether they would be welcome or not (and betting on the latter).

"You are trespassing,” said Simon coolly, separating himself from the shadows.

Hand stationed on the hilt of his weapon, deigning to leave it holstered for now, Ford retorted, with no shortage of blandness, “A library is public property.”

“More a tomb than a library now…” Simon drawled morosely, his eyes roving around the room. “I would visit almost every day, when my dear Lenora managed the books. I have not stepped inside since; the halls are too dark now. The light of this place left when hers went out.”

Ford had a sinking feeling that her demise intertwined with the whole town’s state of dismay. “What happened to her?” he asked, out of need and curiosity.

Simon’s gaze claimed a spot on the wall just past his head, his voice a bleak parody of a human’s, “The Reverend warned us not to treat them. He claimed that his daughter had seen a vision of death should we assist these…these outsiders. Of course, most of us dismissed this advise as the ravings of the paranoid.”

“As well you should have,” Ford voiced approvingly.

“We were fools,” Simon sneered. “Arrogant fools, all of us.”

Quickly as it raged, the outburst quelled. “The disease spread like a scourge,” he continued, dispassionately. “So many fell ill so fast… What few doctors we had could not keep up. Nothing improved, no reprieve in sight. Not until…”

“Until the Reverend’s interference,” Ford finished darkly .

“He told us the cause was not a virus; it was a _curse_. Order to gather the sick and bring them to him, so he could exorcise the evil.” The man’s face flushed with what could only be described as mild exultation, “And he prevailed. Those who could be saved were.”

 _“Coincidence,”_ Ford scoffed. “Pure, unproven speculation. The illness was unfamiliar to these shores, hence the rapid and seemingly supernatural spread. Moreover, those who survived would build up an immunity, and with the constant administration of medicine, the disease would have burnt itself out.”

“Do you not believe in the Reverend’s power?” Simon eyed him piteously.

“I believe he has an influence here that defies all reason and logic,” Ford grumbled. “Which will be remedied soon enough.”

Simon shrugged heedlessly. “When you two first came ashore, we feared another outbreak might be upon us. I assumed the Reverend would send you away. But he is wise. He saw the threat you carried, and like a fearless man of faith, refused to flee from it.”

 _Threat? Threat to **him,** perhaps, but certainly not to anyone else_.

“And he recruited us to ensure that you do not interrupt his mission,” Simon continued ominously

 _“Us?”_ Ford latched onto the inclusive pronoun, stiffening. Ears piquing with distress, he listened, alarmed to note a dull clattering at the windows. How had he missed the sound?

“Faith in his power shall be rewarded, as it was to us, who survived only thanks to him,” Simon prattled vehemently. “If you repent for your misdeeds, convert from your irreverent denial, then you too can be–”

Silence reclaimed the library, Simon’s mouth snapped shut at the crack of Ford’s gun against his temple with expert precision. “Probably should have done that five minutes ago,” he grunted, stepping over the unconscious man.

Outside the noise grew fiercer in volume, and with the door being the direction from which it came, Ford opted to escape by alternative means. Unlikely that being spontaneous would help him avoid confrontation altogether, but, this way he would have the element of surprise (as well as sophisticated, interdimensional technology) on his side.

Ambushing his attackers before they besieged the building, the sight was unexpected enough that he wavered, though he kept his bearings more than most would.

Corpses, all of which should have been lying horizontal, six feet deep somewhere, surrounded the spot where he stood. Twenty of them, give or take. Hollow eyes, once windows to personal thoughts and emotions, now radiated a violet hue, matching the jewel of the amulet. Moans from the mass crooned like a hungry, tone-deaf chorus.

And him without a three-part harmony.

“Zombies,” sighed Ford, equal parts irritated and appalled.  "Of course it’s _zombies.“_

 _Appalled_ because there were no exposed skin, progressively rotted flesh, no evidence of them being dead long enough for extensive discomposure. Yet slashes, lacerations, black-and-red marks sunk upon these sallow-skinned phantoms: courtesy of the Reverend’s _humanitarian_ efforts, no doubt. Swelling at the inferences, Ford pushed his disgust aside. For now.

"Better call this in,” he mumbled aloud, procuring the walkie-talkie from his coat, narrowly fending off a clumsy strike from the pale shadow of a young man as he dove for his sleeve, mouth wide open, rattling with ravenous intent. “Stan!”

 _“…Ford?”_ Stan’s voice rang over the line, stilted and shaky. Nearly consumed by static. _“You there?”_

“Stanley, have a problem,” Ford rasped, dodging a swipe of slimy grey fingers. “The Reverend’s used the amulet to reanimate the dead. And allows him to control them, to some degree, as the zombies are willing to do his dirty work.”

Then again, Ford conceded as he thrashed what appeared to be a former law enforcer to the left – accidentally dislocating a piece of arm which, thankfully, wouldn’t be missed in the man’s present state – these zombies were a minor inconvenience at best, easy to outrun if you had the space and capability. Strategically speaking, assuming the Reverend could be considered a strategist, this incursion read more like a diversion than an assassination. As if he meant to stall Ford, maybe injure or incapacitate him. But why…

Revelation struck as Ford trounced the gray, grasping hand of a middle-aged woman; the “threat” Simon alluded to, the odd stare the Reverend had leveled at Stan, back at the church. Splitting up _had_ been a inadvisable course of action – and not to be petty, but Ford looked forward to throwing this information in Stan’s face, since it was he who usually mocked Ford for his self-preserving paranoia.

“Stan, you have to listen,” he conveyed urgently. “He’s fixated on you, for whatever purpose, and if he catches you…”

Muffling a groan, he aimed straight for the luminous eyes of , the shot smacking through the first and hitting the second one that was lumbering up behind. Made the last round count, but now he was out of ammo.

“I’m in a bit of a bind at the moment, but I will be headed to your location shortly, so if you’d be so kind as to divulge it–” He fought back a snarl because this conversation was of a _slightly_  important nature and still, not a word from his brother. _“_ – _Stan!”_

Distracted, Ford jolted when a gray, grasping hand swiped at him, much too close for comfort. He managed to notice and duck out of the way in time to avoid a nasty, potentially fatal, scape of jagged teeth. The walkie-talkie was not so lucky.

 _“Fuck.”_ Ford glared scathingly at the corpse with chunks of metal spilling from its maw. “Our niece and nephew sent us those,” he said, miffed, as he slowly reloaded his weapon.

He had attempted the calm, pacifistic approach. Time to take the offensive.

 _“Baruch Dayan Emet,"_ Ford saluted under his breath, showing no mercy to the remnants of people that had once been: There was nothing else that could be done.

By the time the last undead head went splattered across the ground, Simon began to stir. Ford shook him until his eyes fluttered open, the picture of a fish wrangled from the water. "I never read much scripture, tell you the truth, yet I seem to have an _explicit_  recollection of the Old Testament’s more gory excerpts.”

Simon’s throat bobbed defiantly.

“And I do _not_ appreciate being baited,” Ford muttered, the muzzle of his gun a hair’s breadth from the man’s nose. “Now _tell me_ where the Reverend is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I figured since Ford missed all the zombie fun on Scary-oke, the man was due. Unfortunately, he’s been subjected to my lacking action scenes, which are the reason this chapter took a while.
> 
> It got darker, as promised. But if anyone’s looking for a mental image of the Reverend, think Judge Frollo from Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame, who was an integral inspiration to my character building.


	3. Burned But Not Buried

_No chance of cheating your way of this one, huh?_

The voice emerged, a beacon through the pain Stan was trying his damnedest to clamp down on, resisting the yearn to pass out tooth and nail. As if often did, when he fled into the mindscape – a chronic work-in-progress – for reprieve. Occasionally, while there he heard a voice that wasn’t unlike a conscience, his own annoying (and antagonistic) Jiminy Cricket; offering wry, helpful tips or being a nuisance, invading his sleep with phantasms and flashes of flames.

Other than that, it was simply that – a benign whisper in his ear, a presence so covert and habitual that he hardly gave it a second thought. No different from the shadowy, negative impulses that also lurked around the dreamscape.

 _C'mon, you’ve done enough,_ the voice wheedled, soothingly. _And you’re no use to anyone as you are. Look at you, exhausted. Go on. Let go. Give up._

Somehow, someway, Stan knew he _shouldn’t_. It wasn’t just an old lesson taken from boxing drills. It wasn’t a survival instinct borne of too many streetwise struggles. It was something _else,_ a nagging, niggling ghost of a memory that squirmed out of touch every time he tried to grasp it. And without proper hindsight to steer him away, the temptation proved too sweet to ignore.

Finally, after a particularly taxing throe, he severed his ties to consciousness with groan. Sunk into the warm blanket of darkness below, too engulfed at that point to care what might bob to the surface in his absence.

_If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em._

Yet for all that it was a surrender, it didn't feel like giving up. More like giving in.

* * *

Simon proved to be a vocal speaker indeed, when placed on the end of an highly capable weapon; as most, humanoid or no, tended to.

The man’s squealing led Ford back to the church, and, wary of being on the enemy’s turf, especially when the aforementioned enemy was apparently swarming with undead manpower, he moved stealthily through the narrow corridors, taking a side route rather than barreling through the front door.

Quarter of the way into his quick yet thorough scouting, Ford stumbled upon a girl he believed was the Reverend’s daughter, sitting by her lonesome in the hall. She appeared so quiet and forlorn that he almost mistook her for a statue.

Adrenaline high, and suspicions on alert, Ford couldn’t risk giving her the benefit of the doubt. Sentiment served poorly in enemy territory, and he had encountered less innocuous-looking threats than her. He had no intentions of ambushing her, however, and his footsteps rang loud and clear, so surely she heard, but opted to waiting until he got close to address him.

“Have you come for my father?” she asked around a sigh.

Pausing at the non-accusatory nature of the question, he replied, “Yes,“ cautiously, gauging her reaction.

"Good,” she whispered, sounding frightfully relieved.

Convinced of her sincerity, Ford relaxed his stance, yet refrained from holstering his gun. “He has my brother. I need to know where to find them,” he beseeched, hoping her loyalty to the man was weak as it seemed.

“There was noise, coming from that direction.” She gestured with her chin, adding lowly, "Not for the past half hour.“

Heart sputtering at the implications, Ford murmured his thanks, taking off at a brisk pace. Flashes of the zombies, all mangled _pre_ -mortem, nipped at his heels.

"A word of caution, Dr. Stanford Pines.”

Ford halted, even while the direness urged him to hurry on and forget her heeds. Caught off guard, because he had never _fully_ introduced himself to this girl, or anyone on this island. Nevertheless, she knew him by name.

 _“Be sober, be vigilant,”_ she recited. _“Because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.”_

Shivers snaked down his spine, but he didn’t linger, and said nothing; moreover, there was no time to decode the puzzle she had presented. Following her directions, the hallway collapsed into an unguarded doorway.

Unbarred and unlocked, he burst through in no time at all – in hindsight, he wished there _had_ a been a delay, a chance to brace for whatever awaited him on the other side.

The air hung heavy with the scent of blood, sweat and molten wax. Summer’s humidity seeped through closed window, clogging the senses. Not enough to mute his absolute horror at spotting the figure lying prone on the floor.

Rushing to Stan’s side, he knelt and swore at the damage, the burgeoning knots of mottled skin and lacerations etched into tender flesh, the dark red splotches staining clothes. Shoving aside his dismay, he scrambled for signs of life. Relief gushed at the fluttering pulse beneath his fingertips.

“Stan?” he called, tapping his brother’s cheek. His brother twitched at his ministrations but didn't stir. _“Stanley!”_

“Do not touch him!” the Reverend barked, voice ricocheting around the room. “You will disrupt all the progress we’ve managed to make.”

Purposefully, Ford turned, saw the man with his sleeves rolled up, the red stains on his hand glowing orange in the candlelight. An iron fire stoker clasped between his fist, although the room was distinctly void of a hearth. Fury coursed through Ford’s veins, a molten pulsation of unreleased energy. He was shaking with it.

“Progress?” he spat. “You have the gall to call these barbaric practices _progress?”_

“A necessary measure,” the Reverend spoke primly, inclining his head. “For the greater good, you understand.”

Of course: the elusive greater good. Yes, he’d heard plenty of that excuse before. Colleagues had spoke of the same, the need for answers and truth that outweighed all ethical concerns. Once upon a time, even Ford had conceded to that defense. As he grew older, his beliefs wavered, and he wasn't quite so certain anymore.

Looking at his brother's bloodless face, and remembering the hollow eyes of the Reverend’s victims, it became clear how distorted such a view could become with “good” being such a subjective motivation. Fingers clenched at his side, the nails digging rents into the flesh of his palm, Ford balked at how this man still expected him to condone these actions.

“Step away now,” ordered the Reverend. “We have yet to complete the cleanse. The demon still lurks beneath his skin. I will save his soul if I can, but if not…well, rest assured, he will not suffer long.”

Mouth curled in a sneer of disgust, Ford growled, “The only person who will require saving is _you.”_

He lunged, too nimble to be blocked, and decked the guy square in the nose, the crunch of cartilage beneath his knuckles an unnecessary blow, yet sure as hell satisfying. He understood why Stan went around punching anomalies on a regular basis.

Nose misshapen and gushing, the Reverend gnashed his teeth, blood mingling with spittle as he fought, fists flying towards his opponent. Ford deflected each swipe with a grunt, then grabbed the man by his neck.

“You’re blind–” the Reverend wheezed, scrabbling at the hand around his throat. “Deaf to the signs, the warnings positively screaming at you–”

“Shame I’m not deaf to your nonsense,” Ford muttered, fumbling to switch the settings on his weapon while maintaining his hold. “Now _stay_ down.”

Preoccupied by his anger, Ford forgot about the amulet – a grave oversight on his part. The gem flashed, vengefully; a burst of energy pummeled through his sternum, sent him smashing into the wall with a crack. He lost his grip on his weapon as he dropped to the ground, arm throbbing at the impact.

 _“Ce'lrrt'vsk,”_ he swore, staggering upright.

“What’s that, the devil’s language?”

“Kolorkian, actually,” Ford corrected mulishly, making a beeline for his weapon. A boot stomped on its sleek metallic surface a second before he could reclaim it.

Darting away, Ford glared, the sinking sensation of defeat weighing bitterly on his chest.

But the Reverend's checkmate never came to pass; that gloating face seized with when a pair of arms wrapped around his abdomen, squeezing tight enough that the tendons in his muscle bulged. There was only one person they could belong to.

 _Stan._ He smiled fondly. _Always surprising when everyone least expects it._

“Let go of me, you heathen!” the Reverend hissed, struggling within the unrelenting grasp. “Mark my words, if you deny my salvation, you _will_ regret it.”

 _Doubtful analysis_.

“Hold him still,” Ford requested, begrudgingly setting his gun to stun. Knowing what this man had done to so many, including his brother, it took a lot of concentrated willpower to avoid disposing of him then and there. But above the call for blood, he recognized that the Reverend deserved to answer for his crimes. And he couldn’t do so dead.

Stan let him fall to the floor, the flat sound of defeat as he dropped an anticlimactic finish to the evening’s events.

Fine by him, really; Ford had had plenty dramatics for one night. “Nice timing," he lauded, impressed, if not winded. "How did you…”

 _Break free,_ he meant to ask, yet as his gaze trailed down his sibling’s swaying form, he saw the bloodied wrist hanging limply at his side and hissed in sympathy. “Stanley, your hand!”

He went to examine the injury but stopped, outstretched hand paused midair. A sliver of ice-cold instinct kept him at bay. That, and Stan still had his back to him, staring down at his incapacitated captor in a way that seemed almost calculating…

“Stan?” he pressed, eyes narrowing as he bridged the distance between them, laying a hand on his twin’s shoulder so he could turn him, inspect the damage – and truth be told, it was probably just Stan trying to obscure his pain, pretend he was fine to save face–

Ford’s thoughts faltered, derailed off the tracks. His brother offered no resistance to his prodding but as soon as he saw his face, saw immediately that there was something wrong with. His eyes. _Those_ eyes. He knew the signs, had once sought them around every dark corner, anticipating an attack from anyone; friend, foe and family alike.

He tackled his brother, slammed him against the ground in no time at all, Stan’s collar entrenched in his unforgiving grip.

 _“You,”_ seethed Ford, shock and abhorrence shaking his very core. “What are you – no, you _can’t_ be–”

The body below refused to answer, eyes glinting with silence, the hint of a smirk quirking up at him. Ford scowled, scarcely repealing from senseless, reactionary violence, the inner mantra _this is your brother, your brother_ keeping him in check, even as his fingers itched for the discarded gun.

Perhaps sensing the danger in Ford’s glare, his brother’s pupils dilated to normal size, the change so fast he almost missed it, the otherworldly force infecting his features slithered away – leaving only Stan, whose eyes widened, a spell of terror draining what color remained in his face. Seeing that alarm, directed at him no less, raised Ford from the brink, his bearings returning with a cold wash of shame.

Before he could even remove himself, a convulsion shuddered up Stan’s spine, and then his eyes, which had been rapidly flickering with confusion, rolled into his head. No amount of shaking or calling on Ford’s part would bring him back after that.

Rolling away, Ford leaned heavily against the nearest solid object, ground his knuckles against his forehead. Could he reach past the metal plate to erase what he’d just witness, he would so without a care. Such irresponsibility echoed a younger him, and for all that he had grown, the desire to return to a more ignorant frame of mind coiled strong with his churning stomach.

Writhing their way from the confines of his memory, the words of the Reverend’s daughter emerged, almost mocking in their triumph. At the time, Ford had assumed they were a warning relating to her father, and how he should be careful confronting him.

Now, with his thoughts as uncertain as Stan’s uneven breaths, Ford found reason to reevaluate that assumption entirely.


	4. In This Quiet Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last part! Thanks to everyone who's encouraged/stuck by this little fic!
> 
> Also, for your viewing please, here's some fanart based on this story done by the amazing yourlocalviking over on tumblr: http://yourlocalviking.tumblr.com/post/143698957727/sketch-inspired-by-logicalbookthief-a-pound-of

People generally assumed, as far as she could tell, that being any variation of psychic either made life a breeze or came with a hefty burden of knowledge. None of them considered that it might be _neither,_ because visions were a fickle thing, and rarely ever appeared in a discernible, chronological order.

Or, perhaps it _was_ like that for some. For her, it was more of a puzzle – she got snippets, fragments of whole pictures, often incomplete without the means to decipher them.

Not an immensely helpful tool, to be honest: A curse from the Devil, Father used to say with spite. Her visions had been as unwanted as her blindness, until her abilities suited his purpose. Then she was “God’s gift” to him. Shame he couldn’t have viewed her that way from the beginning…

“Cassandra?” Her ears perked at the approach of Dr. Isla, the hospital’s chief of staff and Stan’s attending physician.

“Call me…Cass, please.” The nickname was unfamiliar, exciting on her tongue. She had quite enjoyed hearing Stan refer to her as such, and in turning over a new leaf, a new moniker seemed fitting. “Good news?”

“Good news and bad," Dr. Isla's voice was kind, and in Cass’ imagination, her eyes were even kinder. Both had been her constant companion since Dr. Pines had called for reinforcements.

"I’ll start with the former: Your friend’s doing fine. Vitals are steady. He should be awake soon.” Cass smiled, quietly relieved that there was one less victim weighing on her conscience. “And then there’s the bad news. I was…unable to contact your mother’s parents.”

“Couldn’t contact or couldn’t convince?” snorted Cass. She caught the doctor’s hitch in breath, but she herself was unfazed. Her grandparents had had fourteen years to contact her, and instead chose to resent her from a distance, blame her for their daughter’s untimely death.

(At this point, she was accustomed to being blamed for things out of her control. Being born. Being blind. Being weird. After a while, you learned to accept your lot in life.)

“Listen,” Dr. Isla said softly; Cass supposed that was the tone specifically labeled for orphans (little did they know she had always been on her own, a tenant in her own household). "I understand if…well, we haven’t known each other long, but I _have_ an extra room at my home. And I wouldn’t mind an extra pair of hands around…you don’t look like you eat much, anyway. We’ll see that that changes, of course.“

Her heart soared at the playful last comment, at the entire earnest suggestion; but _this,_ this also came as no surprise. Beneath the flutter of jubilation, a stab of remorse accosted the space between her ribs; the attack was, admittedly, warranted. Briefly, she recalled a captured Stan telling her not to worry, that it wasn’t her fault.

Except that, at least partially, it _was_.

There was no contest in calling her a prisoner to her father’s whims, a pawn in his ploy, though not an unaware accomplice. When the vision of the amulet first arrived to her on a muggy, restless night, the next day Cass went to the library to investigate its origin. Lenore, the librarian who had always served as a friend and confidant, collected all the relevant information regarding the heirloom. She learned of its dangers then, and still, made its location known to her father.

Because Cass had _known_ that bringing her father the amulet would be the spark, the hand that tipped the dominos, the singular event that led to her freedom. And while she hadn’t known _exactly_ what the collateral damage would be, she understood that there was no freedom without sacrifice, victory without vengeance. Yolotli’s story had taught her that, if nothing else.

Frankly, she was just so _tired_ of being the victim, suffering in her own ineptitude. Some days she could barely lift her chin under the weight of her weariness.

"I would… _yes,_ I would love that very much!” she told the doctor, holding her head high so that her rare, smile was on full display.

If there was a God – not the one her father preached, but a forgiving and merciful one – she prayed for not her own soul, but for those she had accidentally damned, Lenore chief among them. Her friend’s fate would forever be a tarnish on her hand, a guilt she could never wipe clean, no matter how many Stanleys she saved.

But the thing about being sorry was, it probably didn’t count when, if given the opportunity to go back and change what she did, she wouldn’t. That was selfishness in a nutshell, she supposed.

In her mind’s eyes, visions past – a selfless man toiling to bring a doomsday  machine back to life – mingled with visions yet unformed– a desperate man unwilling to face the truth; and Cass mused that, if _anyone_ would understand, it would be the Pines family.

* * *

Light crept into the corner of his dreams, disturbing what had been a prolonged, peaceful bout of sleep, _goddamn it_.

He held fast to the soothing blanket of darkness cocooned around him, yanking it over his head like a disgruntled teenage to escape the invasive blare of sunlight. The light retaliated by _flaring_ across his face.

In that moment, Stan loathed everything, especially the _sun._ Worse, the trickle of had alerted his other senses into semi-consciousness, and now his ears were picking up on the low voices conversing nearby. The noise was still unintelligible mumbles of sound, but his good-for-nothing hearing aids had already betrayed him, so it was pointless to attempt

When he focused, Stan caught the end of the person’s sentence, with them saying “…you very much,” and go figure, it was Poindexter.

“It’s no trouble,” said a woman’s voice, with an infliction of the utmost gratitude. “You and yoru brother did a great service, freeing our outlying village. I have friends who might have perished, there are people who might never have received a proper burial, if not for your brave actions.”

“W-Well, it was…” Ford coughed. Stan pictured his shoulders straightening, chest puffing out the way it did when the nerd tried to look valiant. “We were only doing what was right by everyone, ma'am.”

“Dr. Isla,” insisted the woman, who was a doctor, meaning that he must be in a hospital, which would explain the inhospitable brightness. 

“If you need anything, anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask for it.”

“Yes, ah, I will…do that. Thank you again.”

He heard shoes clacking against a tiled floor, waited until they dissolved before speaking up. “Stop flirting with the nurses, Sixer,” Stan teased, smirking through his drowsiness. “S'my job.”

“Stanley!” Stan pried open his eyes to see his brother peering down at him, who looked alright, aside from some bruises and scrapes, his wrist in a sling, sprained mayhap. “Thank Moses, you’re awake.”

“Real miracle, that,” Stan groaned. “My joints are positively ecstatic.”

“Chains are not the best muscle relaxants,” Ford acknowledged with a wry quirk of the lips. “How are you feeling besides that?”

“Sore,” Stan grunted, flexing his legs and arms as he struggled into a sitting position, pointedly ignoring every attempt to help made by his hovering brother.

Ford exhaled, exasperated. “Maybe if you would just lay still for a minute, you would be more comfortable, ya knucklehead.”

“Know you are but what are you.” Stan blinked at the IV attached to his wrist. “Geez, m'on the good stuff, ain’t I?”

Huffing out a laugh, Ford said, “Only the drugs best for my brother, of course,” while absentmindedly fixing the sheet Stan had torn loose.

“…” A disconcerted frown formed as something caught his eye. Drawing back the covers revealed the raised, pink lines that seemed to intersect into numbers. The marks were thin and light, almost blending into skin, and quite benign compared to the rest of his sibling’s injuries.

“What is this?” he wondered aloud. “Some kind of code?”

The levity in the room flattened into something stale, unbreathable; Stan shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “Uh, no, it’s…s'a psalm, I think he said. Kept mumble to himself while he…”

Getting the gist, Ford swallowed the backlash bubbling up his throat like bile. Replying felt useless, since he had no idea how, so he stalked over to the bedside table and flung open the drawer, where a Bible lay: He hadn’t been lying when he’d claimed he wasn’t all that familiar with scripture.

After a couple minutes of passive-aggressive page turning, Ford located the verse in question, 34:12.

 _Evil shall slay the wicked; and they that hate the righteous shall be desolate_.

“Whazzit say?” asked Stan when Ford was quiet for several beats because he didn’t want to answer, didn’t want his brother to know the words his flesh now bore.

Instead, in a tight but even tone, he told him, “That amulet has been confiscated. And he will no longer be a problem to anyone, let alone you.”

Flopping backwards, Stan nodded, pleased (and though he would never admit, relieved) to hear the news. “What a nutjob,” he scoffed, buoying what was left of the conversation.

“Let’s not mislabel the man,” sniffed Ford. “His methods might have been that of a lunatic, but he was well-aware of what he was doing, which hardly constitutes someone out of his mind.”

“Yeah, but you gotta admit, the guy had a helluva weird delusion. Treating a flu outbreak like a punishment from God? Thinking my head was gonna twist around like the Exorcist? Ha!”

He barked out a chuckle. Ford didn’t join.

“I mean, that’s pretty crazy, right?" Stan pursued. Ford leveled him with a grim stare.

"Stanley, the amulet does not lie.”

Deja vu chilled his blood, the hairs on his neck standing straight as Ford unknowingly repeated the Reverend’s words. “What’re you talkin’ about?” he demanded, severely perturbed.

Ford examined him carefully, the curve to his jaw suddenly unyielding. “Do you remember how you got out of those binds?” “Do you remember me arriving there at all?”

Stan searched his mental archives, empty-handed by the end of it. He reached deeper, further back, sorting and shuffling through snatches of agony, the brief white-hot flares of burning, followed by increments of precise sla–

 _Uh, no. No, thank you_. Stan was actively trying to avoid reliving that experience. Ford looked like he’d been avidly avoiding a few himself, if the bags under his eyes were anything to go by.

“Okay, sure, I passed out after he – never mind." Stan shook his head. "Point is, you must have freed me.”

“No. _You_ broke from your chains,” Ford amended solemnly. “If it had been me, you would be lying with a dislocated wrist right now?”

“If the situation was dire, you might’ve had to–”

“Be serious, Stan,” Ford snapped. “I saw your _face_. Your _eyes_. The one was tinted blue. Your pupils were dilated. Don’t you think I know the signs?”

Confusion knitted Stan’s brow as he glared at his hands in his lap. “You don’t remember any of this?” Ford pressed, incredulously.

And Stan shrugged, dispelling the growing anxiety because _no,_ there no memory of that whatsoever. “Nope. Sounds like the everything turned out fine, though,” he said, forcefully optimistic. “Could’ve been a fluke. A weird, one-time phenomenon.”

Ford shook his head, hackles rising. “Stanley, you don’t understand. There’s no mistaking it – that was B–”

He caught himself on habit, wary of the poking sleeping dragons, so to speak. But it appeared pointless now, too late for caution. “That was the demon you stopped before. Only now I’m not so certain he’s gone as completely as we had hoped…”

Knuckles white as they gripped the bed rail, Ford ground his molars together. “I ignored the fact that the possibility existed, but with your memory salvaged, I suppose there was always the chance a part of him could have survived. Lying dormant inside of you, all this time.”

Fingers bunched into the sheet, restless and repentant. “So the Reverend was right,” Stan breathed.

Something about the way he spoke, like a guilty man at the rope, lurched Ford into action. “Correct or wrong, that doesn’t excuse what he did,” he spat, sharp as a nail. “You understand that, don’t you?”

“Uh huh,” snorted Stan, disbelievingly. The heart monitor, a source of white noise, spiked in tempo.

“You’re going to send the hospital staff into a frenzy," Ford said, lowering his voice to a more calming cadence. "Take it easy, Stan.”

“Take it easy? Heh. That’s _rich,_ after what you’ve just told me.”

“It’s important to be aware of the situation, but there’s no need to panic yet–”

“Well, you’ve got me panicking!” Stan burst out. “I don’t recall what was said or discussed, back when we concocted this ‘save the world’ plan, but I’m fairly sure it was with the guarantee that once erased, no more problem. So that’s apparently _false,_ and yeah, I’m a _wee_ bit worried. Because what happens if–”

His throat bobbed. “What happens when one day the stupid kraken drags me down to Davy Jones’ locker or I drift off in my sleep? He gonna be free to do as he pleases or _what?”_

Ford blanched, assuring, “No, no!” Had that been the case, they would be in a real mess of trouble. As it was, “The demon dies with the host, there’s no escaping that.”

With this failsafe noted, Stan appeared pacified, the speed of his audible pulse smoothing into acceptable rhythm; in turn, Ford felt his own thunderous heartbeat, which had been on edge since the moment those eerily familiar eyes tore into his own last night, exhaled in relief. That was, until his brother spoke up again, breaching the pact of silence between them:

“So that’s it, ain’t it?”

And the vague, straightforward question rubbed Ford absolutely the wrong way.

“What’s it?”

“The solution,” Stan replied, his tone thoughtful. “If this space demon ever comes back, if I ever _really_ lose control and this thing flies off the handle, well – we know to get rid of him, for good this time.”

“Are you _insane?!”_ Ford hissed through gritted teeth. “That’s no solution, that’s you – offering to–”

“Hey, it’s not like I’m an enthusiastic volunteer here! But,” and then he shrugged, helplessly, “If worse comes to worst–”

“It will _never_ come to that,” Ford asserted firmly.

Stan pursed his lips, narrowly avoiding a scowl. “Look, I’m tryin’ to be the reasonable one for once. Not tellin’ ya to start lighting the pyre.” He cringed, the imagery leaving a tender weight between his ribs. He disregarded it.

“But I ain’t exactly young and it’s not like I have a lotta decades lef–”

 _“Enough_ , Stanley,” Ford exclaimed, slamming his fist on the bedrail. Hard enough to hurt. “I don’t know what idea you’ve gotten into your head but you can throw it right back out. We won’t have to resort to such drastic measures. End of discussion.”

Stan glanced away, cheeks burning like a scolded child;s. He had never heard Ford this angry (except, well, maybe another lifetime ago…). Experience had taught Stan that there was no use continuing the argument, not with him this adamant and upset. And much as he enjoyed the playful ribbing, Stan hated to be the cause of actual distress, responsible for adding another wrinkle or headache.

Again he’d managed to fucking things up, even groggy on drug cocktails. Luckily, he knew how to fix it.

He sighed, pathetically as he could, and sagged against the bed. Playing the invalid card. It wasn’t too much of a stretch – exorcisms were exhausting, especially from his end of the schtick.

 _“Ugh,_ I dunno, I’m… Just tired, I guess…” He watched through half-lidded eyes as the bait caught the fish in the net, Ford's dour gaze softening with realization and reproach.

“O-Of course. You must be utterly worn out…” He snorted, mostly to himself, mollified by this explanation. Stan felt a dull note of triumph; hook, line and sinker.

 _People believe what they want to believe_.

“I’m sorry,” said Ford wanly. "I shouldn’t have brought this on you now. That was very ill-timed.“

Despite the faint guilt of the deceit lingering on his bandage’s chest, Stan managed an airy, "S'fine. Don’t havta apologize." He flashed a smile that was one-hundred percent genuine. "By the way, thanks for saving my ass. Owe you one, Sixer.”

“Don’t have to thank me for that,” Ford scoffed, reciprocating the smile. “Just get some rest. Even with that deplorable man locked up, the sooner we leave this island, the better.”

At least _that_ they could whole-heartedly agree on. Stan nodded and shut his eyes without argument. However, it was nothing but another ruse – sleep came slow, only facilitated by his brother’s presence and the gentle assurance of daylight streaming through the window blinds.

The darkness was no longer the comfort it had been. Now he couldn’t help but wonder what dwelt within, lying in wait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t been in this dimension for a while, is this how you happy end? 
> 
> A note: I’m sorry if the narrative was a tad confusing at times, as while its mostly from Stan’s pov, I slipped into Ford’s once in a while. This was intentional on my part, but still, hope it was navigable regardless!
> 
> Gratuitous use of my OC’s pov in this chapter, too, I’m sorry; but I felt that Cass turned out to be a nice parallel at the end and I’ve grown quite fond of her as her character’s grown from plot device to something more substantial during this writing process. 
> 
> Lastly, I always planned to end this ambiguously, even when it was just a lengthy one-shot, so I have no plots to continue this at present. Now it’s on to my long list of other things I want to write…
> 
> Thanks for reading! Lemme know how it was!


End file.
